What Was His Name

She stretched out on the sofa half asleep, sipping from her glass of brandy and enjoying the warm glow it gave her.

She had meant to be doing something else. What was it? It really seemed too much effort to get up and leave the comfort of her living room.

Ah. Yes. That man tied to her bed.

What was his name? She shook her head as she tried to remember. It was not important, and he could wait a little longer. He did, she thought as she relaxed, have rather a nice body. It was not a very muscular body. It was certainly not a fat body. It was, in fact, just the sort of body that seemed to her to be asking for pain to be applied to it.

She smiled. This was one that she would keep for a while - keep until she tired of him and felt like a change. He had, after all, signed the contract that clearly said he agreed she should dominate and abuse him, with the only stipulation being that she would cause no permanent damage to him. She had no time limit or anything of that sort. It wasn't her fault, of course, that he had assumed she had meant to restrain him for perhaps an hour or so. It wasn't her fault that he had thought she only wanted to tie him up and have sex with him.

So there was no rush. She could enjoy the comfort and take her time. He would wait. He had no choice...

The hands on the clock were moving towards midnight before she moved again. Reluctantly she roused herself from the comfort of her living room and slowly climbed the stairs.

She moved quietly, not because she particularly needed or wanted to be quiet, but quite simply because she wanted to go on enjoying the peace of the evening.

There he was. Spread-eagled on his back on her bed, naked, with his wrists and ankles securely fastened to each corner. He was asleep.

Silently she removed her clothes, laying them neatly on a chair as she always did when she prepared herself for bed. She took her long black nightdress from the drawer and slipped it over her head, letting its comfortable silkiness fall about her. It was odd, she thought, how few men seemed to be able to understand how soft feminine things could co-exist with dominance. To her it was most peculiar, that they always expected the leather, the hard shininess of PVC or the resilient grip of rubber. It was positively bizarre from her point of view, that they all seemed to associate softness and beauty with submission and weakness.

She looked at him now, sleeping like a child with a contented expression on his face. It almost seemed a shame to wake him,

As she stood looking at him she ran her hands over herself, enjoying the silky feeling of the nightdress under the touch of her fingers and against her body as she pressed it to her. Yes, it was time to wake him, and time to disturb just a little the peace and the calm of the night. Now she saw him there was a growing need in her, a need that would not go away until she had satisfied it. Left unsatisfied, she knew it would grow into a compulsion that would shout at her from within and demand her attention until she could concentrate on nothing else.

She moved to the side of the bed, and carefully raising her nightdress above her knees she climbed onto the bed and knelt astride him.

Still he slept.

She adjusted her position until her legs were either side of his head, and letting the nightdress fall around him she slowly lowered herself onto his face. As she pressed down onto him she felt him move as he awoke and panicked.

How long, she wondered, did it take him to realise what was happening? Which sensation struck him first as he awoke? Was it her thighs pressing on either side of his head? Was it her weight pressing him down into the bed? Was it her soft wetness covering his nose and his mouth? Or was it that, for the moment, he was completely unable to breathe?

Now he struggled. She felt him strain helplessly against the bonds that secured his wrists and ankles. She felt his head trying to turn from side to side against her as he sought for release and for fresh air. She felt his mouth open as he tried to speak, to tell her to get off him, to shout, to scream. No sound came from below her, except a muffled moaning which vibrated through her.

She pressed down harder, rocking back and forth slightly, engulfing his face in her soft flesh as though making him part of her. Her excitement climbed towards its peak, both from the physical sensations of his face under her and from the feeling of power and control that always aroused her. His struggles and his futile attempts to make himself heard only served to increase and enhance her pleasure.

Finally she shuddered in an inwardly explosive climax which sent her head reeling and filled her senses. She slumped down, exhausted, totally oblivious to the man under her and now covering his face completely. She no longer felt his weakening struggles nor the feeble movements of his mouth. Her attention was far from him, deep within herself yet, it seemed to her, in another consciousness altogether.

When at last she raised herself from him, he had stopped moving completely. She bent down, listening, and heard the whisper of his breathing. He was not unconscious. Rather, he looked as though he had given up the will to live. His eyes were glazed, although they flickered and followed her movements as she bent closer to him.

Satisfied, she adjusted her nightdress and climbed from him. She touched his cheek lightly and tenderly before, smiling comfortably to herself, she made her way back down the stairs.

What was his name? She still could not remember, and it was still unimportant. She picked up her half-finished glass of brandy and curled up comfortably on the sofa. The glow inside her was not only from the brandy, nor from the heat of her satisfied passion. It was a glow of contentment, a glow from the knowledge that whenever she wanted she could climb those stairs and once again she could satisfy the urge within her. It was a glow that told her everything was perfect.

Now, what was his name?